The Outcast Earl (5 page)

In the depths of the night, she woke from an uneasy slumber. A candle burned beside the bed, and Abigail smiled to see the chambermaid, Annie, asleep in the chair just past the candle. She’d been sewing in an attempt to stay awake, but the fabric was lying in a heap on Annie’s lap, and the girl’s head had fallen back against the wall. Silently, Abigail slipped from the bed and slid her feet into the slippers that waited at the edge. She shrugged on her robe and noiselessly moved across the room. She just wanted to check. If there was someone sitting—and awake—with her aunt, she’d come back to her own bed. The remains of the warming blaze that had been in the fireplace earlier still cast eerie shadows on the walls and ceilings, but it was enough to see that the clock read just after three. It would be morning in a few hours anyway. After dawn, she wouldn’t hesitate to call the night over.

The door opened with only a faint squeak, which didn’t disturb the maid in the least, and after pulling it shut behind her, Abigail limped over the corridor rug to her aunt’s door. It opened noiselessly and Abigail stepped inside.

Aunt Betsy’s room was warm from the fire that was built up in the grate. It was October and the nights were cool, but none of that chill had permeated this room. Abigail approached the bed, noting Betsy’s heavy breathing. Bathed in the golden light that escaped the hearth and filtered in rays over the bed, Abigail stood and took in the new fragility in Betsy’s features. Her aunt’s eyes were closed and her gnarled hands had escaped the coverlet to clutch the silk bedding, a luxurious addition to this room, which was decorated in deep yellow Chinese papers and furnished in black wood inlaid with elegant gold accents.

Someone had kindly removed the powder and cosmetics from Betsy’s face, and had washed the scrapes on her hands and forearms. Bruises were beginning to form along her right cheek and, to Abigail’s dismay, the bandage that had been wrapped tightly around Betsy’s head had stretched and loosened as the injury had swollen.

The maids had been applying a luxurious commodity for October—ice—and Abigail quickly noted the large bag that waited on the bedside table. The room was empty—perhaps the maid had gone to get more?
Meriden Park must have a large icehouse to still have a supply on hand so close to the first winter freeze
, Abigail observed dispassionately.

With a sigh, Abigail sat on the side of the bed and watched Aunt Betsy breathe in slow intervals. She did not claim to be a physician or a herbalist, nor even a proper nurse, but she’d been a loyal student of practical knowledge from childhood. Abigail knew she was unable to translate Fiona’s treatises from their Latin, Greek or Old English. Nor could she quote—as Gloria could—entire family trees from Burke’s Peerage and list from memory the lords of England in order of precedence.

Still, as a child, Abigail had nursed Gloria and Genevieve through scarlet fever and measles, had darned socks for soldiers instead of embroidering, and had been perfectly happy rummaging in the kitchen and pantry on baking day. She had a respectable knowledge of what useful items might be kept in the stillroom, and had had numerous lessons in how to use them. At home, she had been universally sought out to make flower arrangements, repair her father’s shirtsleeves and sister’s dresses, and plan the family’s menus with the housekeeper.

In all of those endeavours, she’d been surrounded by sisters, aunts, cousins and long-time family servitors, many of whom had been her own nursemaids. She’d been safe, mostly encouraged, and generously indulged.

Without Betsy to see her through the next few weeks, Abigail wasn’t sure how she’d manage the practicalities of organising even a small wedding, in a strange place where she knew no one and none of the local customs. Truth be told, she didn’t even know the groom. Not that it mattered. If Aunt Betsy was more seriously injured than the doctor expected, Abigail would simply refuse to move forward until her aunt was well. Betsy would need Abigail to nurse her more than Meriden Park needed a châtelaine or its grumpy master needed a companion.

It would be impossible to convince Meriden to delay, though.

At that stray thought, the door to the room opened again. Expecting the maid, Abigail twisted and looked around.

A maid did enter, a pitcher of ice in hand. Unfortunately, she was followed by the housekeeper, who bore a large bowl, and the much larger, intimidating form of Meriden himself.

Abigail managed to hold her breath and not gasp, but it was impossible to deny that his gaze went immediately to her and stayed there, intent and intense. After the briefest of glances, she didn’t dare meet his eyes again or acknowledge the earl. Instead, she drew on his example earlier and addressed Mrs Carlton. “The wound is quickening, yes? I see someone has been applying ice to try to keep the swelling down.”

Mrs Carlton set her burden beside the bed and clucked. “Mary came and woke me when the ice didn’t work. We’ll have her fixed up nicely in just a few moments—luckily his lordship was still awake and knew just what to do without waking Dr Franklin. Now, then, miss, why are you out of bed? Do you need a draught to help you sleep? Is your ankle giving you pain?”

Abigail shifted on the bed, automatically helping Mrs Carlton to unwind the bandage. She kept her eyes carefully away from Meriden’s face, but still somehow knew it was grim to the point of forbidding.

“I woke a while ago and couldn’t sleep. I thought seeing her peacefully sleeping might help,” she said softly, already knowing it wouldn’t. Despite her external consciousness of Meriden’s presence, Abigail was shocked by bloody mats in Aunt Betsy’s grey hair and the greenish knot beneath that seemed to grow as she watched it. The injury looked decidedly worse, though of course that might be attributed to the developing bruises.

Apparently accustomed to dealing with gruesome displays, Mrs Carlton shook her head and rose from where she had bent over the bed, wetting a cloth in the basin. Abigail watched as the older woman gently—very gently—wiped away what she could, then applied the cold poultice with gentle strokes of her fingers. Without a glance at Meriden, Abigail claimed the long roll of bandage and efficiently rewrapped her aunt’s head in clean cloth before leaning down to kiss her cheek.

Blinking back a stray tear that threatened, Abigail met the housekeeper’s eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes shifting to Mary. “Thank you both.”

“Naturally,” Mrs Carlton assured her. “’Twas lucky for us that his lordship remembered the recipe for the poultice. He’s the one who knew what to put in that paste, you know.”

“I used to make bowls of it in that damn field hospital in Spain just to keep busy,” Meriden observed quietly. Abigail was still sitting on the bed, but he had circled it and come up behind her before Abigail had realised.

Startled, she shifted abruptly, looking up at him.

“But now it’s time for bed for you, too,” he announced, bending over and lifting Abigail into his arms again. This time, she gasped and clutched at his arms instead of the lapels of his coat, holding on to him for balance while she tried fruitlessly to remain upright.

As he turned, she caught a glimpse of a pleased smile on Mrs Carlton’s face, while Mary conveniently moved away to fill the ice bag.

Abigail felt her shoulders stiffen as he strode to the door. “I can walk,” she whispered fiercely.

He ignored the statement, but strode into the gallery. Swinging to his left, he headed confidently down the corridor.

Abigail was neither calm nor confident. “What are you doing?” she whispered urgently, digging her fingers into his arms in a futile bid to gain his attention.

“I warned you to stay in bed until morning,” he grunted. “Since you can’t follow the simplest of directions, you can spend the remainder of the night where I can make sure you stay off that damned ankle.”

“I have to go back to my room. The maid’s there,” she whispered frantically in the dark corridor, struggling in earnest.

He stopped at the top of the stairs. In the darkness, it was impossible to make out his features clearly, but he was frowning. “She let you leave?” he asked incredulously.

Abigail held herself stiffly. “I allowed her to remain asleep,” she said, lifting her chin. “The poor thing is overworked and out of her depth, and she fell asleep on the settee mending, presumably after a full day of work and an unusually busy evening.
And
I would suggest that you have erred in assuming that I am subject to the whim of a young maid when I outgrew governesses years ago.”

“That’s it,” he grunted, striding farther into the dark gloom of the upper gallery.

“
What’s
it? What on earth are you about?” she asked indignantly, when he held her still.

“We’re going somewhere alone—away from injured aunts and helpful doctors and loyal, overworked servants.”

Ahead of them, Abigail spotted the dim outline of two great oak doors and inwardly quaked. “You can’t take me in there.” She shook her head frantically. “Those are your rooms!”

“I know very well whose rooms they are,” he answered, kicking the door beside them open and shutting it firmly behind them with his heel. Without ceremony, he carried her over to the sofa in a small room that apparently served as a sitting room, and deposited her on the dark green velvet cushions before returning to the door and snibbing the lock, pointedly pocketing the key in his coat. “And in reply to your earlier comment,” he continued as fiercely as she had done, “you may not be subject to the whims of a governess, but you are damn well subject to
my
whims. And I will not accept blatant subversion of doctor’s orders and my directives because they do not suit you. Do you understand me?”

Abigail met his glare unflinchingly, but she stilled. Was he reacting to some perceived threat to her health, or was he one of those men who always had to be in control of their surroundings? Was his fury violent, or was he overtired from not sleeping?

“I think,” she said, gathering every ounce of composure and reasonableness she possessed to put into the words, “that we have much to discuss before I would agree that I am subject to you at all, though I will certainly acknowledge it is one possibility. For the moment, I am still my father’s daughter and Aunt Betsy is both my chaperone and now my responsibility. I am the reason she is here, and if I cannot change the past and somehow prevent the accident or her injury, I can for certain nurse her back to health.”

Meriden shook his head, responding in kind to her calm. “No. If anyone is at fault, it is I. I allowed you to travel in your father’s carriage all this way, without considering that it would be in as poor a condition as the rest of his property. I should have arranged for you to use my own travelling coach. I hope that you will accept my apology for not considering the means by which he might convey you north, even for not escorting you myself. Indeed, I would hope that you accept my apology for not caring for you as I ought. It might seem a poor start, but I would ask for your consideration under the circumstances. As it happens, you are not only my first
wife
, you are also the first lady for whose welfare I am wholly responsible.”

Abigail blinked, her world tilting a bit. She had, of course, known her father could be criticised, but Winchester had never once apologised to her or her sisters—not even for the current debacle. She was equally convinced Winchester had never once apologised to her mother for anything. And yet this man all the women of London called a brooding monster did so unflinchingly, over a matter that was not completely within his purview.

“It was my father’s responsibility,” she said after a long moment. “Not yours. No apology is necessary.”

“Nevertheless, I will take better care in the future,” he murmured, still staring at her. “Because you
are mine
and in my care now, regardless of the formalities yet to be observed.”

Abigail drew a deep breath, trying to calm her inner nerves and save herself from whirling headfirst into a re-examination of what she had previously known to be true. “Fiddlesticks!” she eventually objected, frowning him down as he approached at her words. Challenging him to an argument over this notion of ownership did seem the best way to reinforce her earlier impression of selfish arrogance. She allowed her eyes to briefly graze over the scar along his jawbone as she reminded herself that they were essentially adversaries. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe that I am somehow chattel to be ordered about callously according to your moods and tempers, simply because we are expected to marry? If you believe such nonsense, I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong female and should perhaps reconsider this ridiculous plan before it’s too late.”

“I
expect
you are sensible enough to follow directions that are given for your own wellbeing, as we
will
marry,” he countered very carefully, sitting down as close to her as he could manage—so close that his breath raced across her cheek. “And I have not picked the wrong bride. To my mind, I couldn’t have found a more perfect one.”

Abigail turned her head to scoff, but he simply leaned closer and murmured in her ear, the warmth of his breath sliding over her neck and down her jaw, tempting her to shiver. “In any event, there is no going backward, even if I were not determined to have you permanently at my side. You’re here, alone with me, in my house. Your aunt is present, but she is insensible and cannot be thought of as a proper chaperone in the minds of the interfering biddies who dictate your public behaviour. Meanwhile, you are in my own private sitting room, gowned in nothing more than a nightdress, dressing gown and house slippers. In addition, you will likely be here for quite a while, alone with me, as you have already proven conclusively that you did not learn the skill of obedience during childhood.”

Suddenly short of breath, Abigail sat very still, but when Meriden leaned in to kiss her, she couldn’t help her instinctive response to flee.

She leapt to her feet and backed to the fire, rubbing her hands together uselessly in the warm room.